


cradle songs of comfort

by bygoneboy



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: First Time, Human!Outsider, Implied/Referenced Blow Jobs, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Pining, Post-Low Chaos Ending, Temporarily Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 08:40:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5368871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bygoneboy/pseuds/bygoneboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Men go mad,” Samuel would tell him, frowning, “worshipping their Daemons.”</i><br/> <br/><i>And Corvo would think, it is good, then, that it is not worship I am seeking.</i> </p><p>---</p><p>The 5 Times Corvo Attano Loved A God, and the 5 Times He Loved Someone Else Entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cradle songs of comfort

**Author's Note:**

> shows up to write dishonored fic about 3 years too late..........
> 
> this is the one-shot i wrote before expanding the idea into 'incarnate'.

**i.**

 

He dreams of the Void, and it is empty.

 

The whale-blue glow has long since faded to crystal white, shapeless and endless around him. He free-falls for what feels like an Era, struggling to find purchase on the rugged crags he had once walked, all those years ago; when his boots touch down, they crumble beneath his feet. He wakes, crying out—

 

If He had a name, Corvo would use it.

 

**ii.**

 

The faithful are forgetting.

 

The Leviathan has left His kingdom empty, and still Corvo finds sleep at the foot of His shrines.

 

Yes, he had often dreamt there, suspending his conscious mind in hope that when his eyes fell closed, He would find him, curled around the candles and lanterns. Often he would not dream, and wake unsatisfied. On occasion he would come to in the Void, His black eyes rooting him in place with— what? Was it disgust, there, or disdain?

 

“Oh, Corvo,” He would say, so archly. “Do you think Fate will pity you now?”

 

Seldom would he chance to wake to the touch of fingertips, against his jaw (cold, as he had imagined they would be), and every morning he rose to find himself alone. But he was so certain of those caresses, of the shock of icy skin against his own, that spectral touches were all it took, to keep him coming back.

 

He wondered if it was as interesting to the Leviathan as it was a torment to himself.

 

**iii.**

 

“Men go mad,” Samuel would tell him, frowning, “worshipping their Daemons.”

 

And Corvo would think, _it is good, then, that it is not worship I am seeking._

 

**iv.**

 

He was always unorthodox.

 

There was no inequality between them— not once did he pray. But he had more than once dreamed of dropping to his knees before Him in a different way, and in this there was a firm lack of equilibrium, of balance. Something wild and hot-blooded ran in Corvo’s veins that no Leviathan would ever care to understand. If there was a heart in His chest, it was black, and unbeating.

 

Corvo had said as much once— or had tried to. It had burst from his chest in a surge of hurt, and anger— yes, he had been angry, at first. Not at Him, but at Him and Everything, at Fate and its dealt hand, at the ghost of fingertips against his skin and at Gods, for the nature of their inhuman indifference, never wishing, or hoping, or wanting—

 

Certainly, He entertained Corvo’s weakness, but He had never truly borne it Himself. He had never felt His pulse quicken, or His breath catch in His throat. He had never wished for any Name to fall from Corvo’s lips, had never called Corvo to Him hoping for Salvation, had never imagined Corvo braced above Him, coiling hot with it, with _wanting—_

 

“I have given you one Heart already,” He’d replied, mildly. “What need do you have for mine?”

 

**v.**

 

Emily does not comment on the nights that he is away.

 

They do not keep secrets from each other, father and daughter, but despite knowing, she has never asked.

 

Perhaps it is irresponsible of him, to abandon his post for something so selfish. But he concedes, lighting the candles methodically before folding beneath the lavender drapes, that he does sleep better at the shrines.

 

He dreams not of the Void tonight, but of a familiar face, dark otter eyes unreadable— and he wakes in the cold dark, amidst dying candles and the warm glow of the lanterns, to the touch of fingertips against his jaw.

 

“I had hoped I would find you here,” the Outsider says.

 

His jacket has been torn, boots nearly unthreaded. Dark circles are still set beneath His lids but it is by exhaustion that the soft skin there is purpled, not prophecy. His silken voice is cracked and raw and wild; half-wondering if he is still dreaming, Corvo hears it.

 

That He had hoped—

 

That He—

 

No—

 

That _he_ had _hoped_ to find him—

 

“I have been replaced,” the Outsider continues. He holds himself as though he is wounded, or perhaps shattered, one pale hand braced against his chest, his shoulders tight and curved in. “It has cast me out, and created another. The Void tested me, and found me—”

 

He looks away, quickly. Misery breaks apart the once-alien apathy of his face and Corvo, Corvo _stares._

 

“They found me wanting,” he whispers, at last.

 

**vi.**

 

His first lesson is in Grief.

 

Tears well up in his dark otter eyes and he struggles against them, rubbing at the wetness with shaking hands— “Corvo,” he notes, aghast, “I am drowning, from the inside.”

 

Corvo sits him down on the shrine stairs and shakes out a handkerchief.

 

“It happens,” he says.

 

It has been 4,000 years since the Outsider has had to travel on foot. His legs are unsteady— still, he insists, at first, on carrying himself upright, as they make their way back to the palace. It proves to be a stubborn disaster.

 

He skitters through the streets like a spooked colt, snapping toward every faint noise, flinching at streetlight flickers. He totters bow-legged, slipping over the damp cobblestone, crying out with animal fear as he falls. And at last he wheels toward Corvo, desperate to catch hold of a solid weight.

 

He clings to him tightly; Corvo’s heart knocks about frantically in his chest, pressed so close that he can taste the thick scent of the whale oil he carries with him, in his hair, in his clothes. Years of distance farther than his blink-steps could carry him, and suddenly he is here, his head against Corvo’s shoulder, Corvo’s arm around his waist.

 

He had never expected a God to feel so fragile.

 

“Dear, dear Corvo,” he mumbles, red-rimmed and run-down. “Do you think Fate will pity me now?”

 

**vii.**

 

His second lesson is in Relief.

 

Within the warm palace walls Corvo immediately orders a bath drawn up for him— although the servants refuse to come near, when they have finished boiling the water, and steaming the hot towels. They flee nervously back into the corridors as the Outsider shuffles into the room, and Corvo finds it upon himself to unbuckle the Leviathan’s jacket, to remove his boots, to help him over the tub rim.

 

He picks up a bar of soap, and the Outsider’s slate eyes go slanted, watching him carefully— but not distrustfully. And he does trust him, Corvo realizes, slowly working over his porcelain skin. Enough to find him. Enough to hope.

 

He rubs the suds into the Outsider’s scalp, fingers working lather into his hair. In response he hears him hum, deep in his throat, whalesong, black eyes falling closed, leaning into Corvo’s touch.

 

“What’s going on?” asks Emily, poking her head around the door, crown crooked over her forehead. “The servants were prattling on about a Devil.”

 

Corvo looks up at her bashfully, his wet sleeves pushed to his forearms, the Outsider’s dark hair frothy with soapsuds.

 

“Oh,” Emily says, pleasantly. “Hello, Ghost.”

 

“Hello, Empress,” replies the Fallen God, and smiles.

 

**viii.**

 

For all of Corvo’s efforts, there are lessons that yield nothing.

 

The Leviathan is afraid, much of the time, shying toward Corvo when he does not understand, when it frightens him, the not-knowing. And he is often sorrowful, lingering for hours on the palace’s highest balcony, overlooking the Ocean. Corvo does not pretend not to know why. With the waves crashing against the rocks below, it must be easier, to pretend that he can still hear the whales.

 

Homesickness is hardly a foreign matter, to a Serkonan.

 

“Something weighs on my mind,” the Outsider says, when Corvo finds him, breathing in the clear saltwater air. “There is— I do not think we have spoken of it yet.”

 

“A lesson?” Corvo asks. “Something you feel?”

 

“I am—” he stammers, clawing his cupped hand in toward his chest, then pushing it out again, as if he can rip it from his chest. “I am— tired. Not— _tired._ I am—” He glances, restlessly, toward Corvo. “Tell me.”

 

“Frustrated,” Corvo tries.

 

The Outsider opens his mouth, then clamps it shut, lips pursing. “No,” he says, at last, sounding bitter. “Of course, but _no—”_ His eyebrows knit together tightly. “Now I am angry.”

 

He shakes his head in wordless apology. _How do you teach someone how to feel?_

 

“There is so much, _here,”_ says the Outsider, touching his stomach, his breastbone, his throat. “I feel as if— as if I may die from it. How do you stand it?”

 

“You learn,” Corvo tells him, words chosen carefully. “It does not come all at once.”

 

“You have said as much before.”

 

“Well, I cannot promise you that it will fade,” he replies, swallowing back the disquiet crawling up his throat. “Sometimes— when you are hurt— pain stays.”

 

“You speak from experience.”

 

Corvo glances at him. “Perhaps.”

 

“I have hurt you,” he adds, softly.

 

“I— perhaps.”

 

The Leviathan stares back out, over the Sea. “Regret,” he says, with clarity. “It is regret. If I had understood—”

 

When Corvo takes his hand, he does not draw away. His fingers are warm, so much warmer here than the Void.

 

“It’s all right,” says Corvo. “You understand now.”

 

**ix.**

 

It is Corvo that leads him back to his chambers, but it is not Corvo who first presses forward.

 

The Outsider's hands curl into his hair, lips against his neck, teeth on his collarbone. His legs are sturdy enough to hold him now, even as Corvo slides to his knees, as Corvo presses kisses down his stomach, as Corvo's head dips between his thighs— he swallows him, and the Outsider stammers out his name, high-pitched, unsteady, scarlet heat spreading from his ears, to his neck, to the narrow span of his chest.

 

He rocks into him, helplessly, and Corvo’s hands find the hard lines of his hips.

 

It is so much simpler, to worship flesh and blood.

 

**x.**

 

“There is something I want to show you,” the Outsider declares afterward, from where they have sprawled amongst the cushions and quilts.

 

Corvo lifts his head a little, content to watch as the Devil’s black eyes drop to where their hands rest, interlaced. He draws his fingers over Corvo’s wrist, tracing the blue veins, thumb pressing softly against his pulse.

 

“You told me once that I was heartless,” he says.

 

Corvo smiles. “Rather heartlessly, yes.”

 

The Outsider pauses a moment, thoughtful.

 

He guides Corvo’s hand against his chest, and lets it settle there.

 

He says a word, quietly, a Name he had once forgotten.

 

And beneath his palm, Corvo feels it beating, steady and sure.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Cradle Songs of Comfort](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9101608) by [RsCreighton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton)




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